


Under The Light Of A Thousand Stars

by Jiksa



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Romantic Gestures, Snogging, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-23 20:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16166339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: It’s Gemma’s wedding, they’re playing Ed Sheeran, and Harry is so done with giving a fuck.





	Under The Light Of A Thousand Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renlyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renlyne/gifts).



> Written for the [2018 Grimmy Appreciation Fest](https://grimmyappreciation.tumblr.com). Basically an attempt to emotionally cripple my lovely prompter [Renlyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renlyne/pseuds/renlyne). Thanks Ren for the amazing prompt, x & x for the beta read & Writ for running a brilliant fest. <3

It’s not that he and Nick haven’t accidentally fallen into each other’s beds over the years, once or twice or a dozen times, drunk and reckless and ill-advised, inbetween Harry’s girlfriends and Nick’s _whatevers_ , between endless tours and DJ gigs and birthday parties, Harry sneaking off in the mornings without leaving a note, and Nick going quietly back to his life, and both of them pretending nothing happened until the next time it accidentally does.

It’s never meant anything. They’ve never let it.

But then… well. Weddings. Sharp suits, champagne flutes, moving speeches, teary eyes, bright laughs, new beginnings, fresh hopes, blurry selfies, Nick aross the dance floor looking like everything Harry’s ever wanted, and Harry chronically forgetting he’s not supposed to want Nick _like that_.

Most days it’s fine, and they’re best mates, and Harry wouldn’t risk losing that for the world. 

But then… weddings.

When James and Jules walked down the aisle, the two of them drank 3/5ths of Harry’s band under a table and Harry looked at Nick’s mouth as _I found someone to carry me home_ echoed from the speakers. Nick merely shoved at his shoulder and muttered, “Pfffffffff. You’re proper sloppy, love.”

When Anne and Robin tied the knot the following year, Nick helped Harry practice his speech in the men’s room and held his hair back when the nerves got to him. He wiped sick off of Harry’s tie and tucked his curls behind his ear, and when the radio sang, _I only lose my mind when I ain’t got you,_ Harry couldn’t help himself. Nick stopped him with a hand on his chin, and whispered, “You’re a biohazard risk, darling. Let’s go disinfect you with some more alcohol.”

When Pixie and George got hitched on a beach in Mallorca, the two of them got _white girl wasted on that brown liquor_ in the sweltering summer heat and stumbled back to the hotel as dawn broke over the cypress trees. Harry cautiously reached for Nick, and Nick sighed, “Nah, babes, don’t think so.”

And then last month, sometime after Adam’s speech but before Lou threw the bouquet, Harry held Nick’s eyes until Nick looked away, rolling his eyes and ashing his cigarette onto the grass. “Every fucking wedding, Haz,” Nick grumbled, blowing smoke out of his nose like a cartoon bull. “Like clockwork.”

“So?” Harry demanded, leaning back against the white picket fence and swilling the ice cubes around his empty glass. He glanced around, ensuring no one within ear shot was paying them any mind. “Why not?”

“Because,” Nick said sagely, pointing the cigarette towards him. “You get all emotional and heart-eyed at weddings, and then you confuse that with wanting to get your dick wet, and you project it onto me, and that’s not fair to either of us.”

Harry bit down on the urge to argue, to ask _since when is any of this fair?_. The wedding singer inside crooned, _we’ve come so far, my dear, look how we’ve grown,_ and Nick’s eyes were unexpectedly hard on his, and Harry suddenly lost his nerve. “Forget I said anything.”

Nick scoffed. “You didn’t, though.”

“What?”

“Say anything. You never _say_ anything, you just get sloppy drunk and try act out some romantic comedy with me like you don’t give a fuck.”

Harry swallowed thickly. _Like you don’t give a fuck_ made his stomach drop. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it, though? I know you desperately want to feel like _a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her_ , or whatever the fuck, but—”

“ _What?_ ”

“—but listen, you and I shag sometimes, yeah?” Nick barrelled on, undeterred, almost like he’d prepared this in advance. “Fine, cool, whatever. Good, clean, mutual fun. No worries. But don’t pretend it suddenly means something, just because weddings make you momentarily teary and you don’t want to go home alone.”

“That’s not—”

“Come on, love, we both know you’re still gonna be gone before sunrise.”

That one landed like a suckerpunch to the gut. Not because it wasn’t true, but because he’d never considered Nick would ever want anything else. “ _Nick_.”

“Forget it,” Nick echoed, putting out his cigarette and holding the door open. “Let’s go back inside and watch Lottie and Caroline fight over the bouquet, I’m sure Lou’s itching to start a brawl.”

Harry stood frozen in place. “Nick—”

“Honestly, forget it. It’s fine. We’re mates, yeah? Just don’t confuse things.” 

"I'm not— I'm not confused," Harry said, trying desperately not to look it.

Nick looked at him for a long time before shaking his head. "See you inside, then," he muttered, and then he was gone. 

 

—

 

The most confusing part of Nick asking him _not to confuse things_ , is that things have been properly confusing for as long as Harry can remember. Nick was the one who first kissed him against a stall door in a seedy Camden pub, who first murmured, _just mates, yeah? Nothing serious_ against Harry’s greedy seventeen-year old mouth the first time he took Harry into his bed, who pretended to still be asleep the first time Harry woke up naked and sore and spent beside him.

Nick’s the one who broadcasts _Still Into You_ as a welcome home gift everytime Harry steps onto British soil, the one who always answers Harry’s calls no matter what time of day or night it is, the one who flew to New York to stroke his back before he walked onto the Saturday Night Live stage.

Harry _gives a fuck_. He gives so much of a fuck he can hardly stand it.

And so, when Michael and Gemma exchange rings in a church in Cheshire, and the night’s coming to a close and she’s dancing rosy-cheeked and joyous with her hands over her head, her white lace dress trailing behind her, Harry sips his flute of cava and watches Nick from across the dance floor.

Nick’s holding court with every grandmother in a six mile radius, sloshing drink out of a cognac glass as he tells stories with more gusto than advisable, given the current state of his hand-eye coordination. The crow’s feet at the sides of his eyes are deeper than they’ve ever been, and he’s smiling with his eyes and putting his hands on Auntie Edith’s forearm as he leans in to make his point.

He and Nick are older now, maybe too old to keep pretending this thing between them isn’t the best thing either of them have ever fucking had.

Harry doesn’t register someone’s taken the seat beside him until he hears Michael say, “Brother. You good?”

He tears his eyes away from Nick. “I’m good, brother. You?”

“Just conned my best friend into sticking around for the rest of our lives,” Michael says, lifting his shoulder in a theatrical shrug. His tie’s loosened and his grin can only be described as _shit-eating_. He looks exhausted and happy, his mouth smeared with traces of Gemma's lipstick. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

Gemma’s dancing with Michael’s niece and nephew, holding their hands in hers and twirling in circles as the band sings _when I see you the whole world reduces to just that room_. No one’s meant to know yet, but Harry knows there’s a two-month old little love in her belly already, that the world’s about to bloom in a million different ways for them.

He glances at Nick again and swallows. Nick’s been avoiding him all night, and pretty much all month before that. It makes Harry’s heart hurt. Certainly doesn't help to _not confuse things._ “Could be worse,” he agrees.

Michael laughs, nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own. “Next song’s the last one. Thought you might want a head’s up.”

Harry frowns at Michael, who’s already getting out of his chair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Michael snorts, walking off. When he reaches Gemma, he sweeps her up in his arms and twirls her around like she’s weightless, then kisses her like he’s just come home from the trenches. It should be revolting, but it’s just sweet.

Harry’s always given more of a fuck than he’s ever known what to do with when it comes to Nick, but he’s suddenly and very intensely out of fucks to give. He wants to fall into Nick’s bed tonight, and maybe the night after that, and maybe for all the foreseeable nights ahead of them.

The opening bars of the most inconvenient of all Ed Sheeran songs play as Harry gets to his feet, the nerves and headrush momentarily disorientating him. His knees feel weak as they carry him to where Nick’s sat, but his feet stay determined. Everything’s a little blurry at the edges, his heart inexplicably hammering in his chest.

“No, Gladys,” Nick is rambling, his back turned to Harry’s, “listen now, my point is— oh, don’t give me that look, Mildred, you’ve watched too many Disney movies to have a reasonable opinion on any of this—”

Harry clears his throat. “Hey, Nick—”

“Haz, give me just a minute, what I’m trying to say is—”

“ _Nick_ ,” Harry repeats, extending one shaking hand. “Dance with me.”

Nick finally turns his head, frowning at him. He glances between the dance floor and Harry’s hand, his brow furrowing deeply. “To this drivel?”

“I’m telling Ed you said that. It’s the last dance. Come on.”

“You’re an awful dancer,” Nick argues weakly. Not that he’s wrong, but he sounds unsure of himself. He looks between Harry’s eyes. “You’re worse than— Harold, this song is the most humdrum clichéd thing they’ve played all night.”

“Just bloody dance with him,” Gladys says, giving Nick a gentle shove to the shoulder. “Don’t be rude now.”

Nick looks at her mutinously. “Fine,” he says eventually, downing the dregs of his glass and getting reluctantly out of his chair. “But I’m coming back for you Mildred, and you’re going to know how wrong you are.”

“Fighting words!” she barks after him.

Harry leads them onto the dance floor, one hand around Nick’s wrist, as the wedding singer inconveniently lays Harry’s insides bare. “Are you drinking shots and arguing with elderly women just to avoid me?”

“Peach schnapps,” Nick says, toying with his bracelets like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. His cheeks are a little pink. “Those ladies can put it away. Honestly Harry, this song is—”

Harry holds his hand up and puts a tentative hand on the side of Nick’s hip.

Nick looks at Harry’s hand and bites his lip. “What... are you doing?”

“Dancing with you.”

“Like, proper dancing? Like—” Nick looks around. The dance floor’s full of bodies, but Harry can’t bring himself to look away from Nick, lest he lose his nerve. “Um. Okay.”

He presses a clammy hand to Harry’s and lets Harry pull him close, lets Harry press their chests together, and actually shuts the fuck up for once.

“I… uh,” Harry says. “I've been thinking about something.”

“Oh god, spare me your drunken melancholy. Is this going to be about hamsters on tiny bicycles again?”

“Nick,” Harry says, taking a step to the right and trying unsuccessfully to move with the music. “I’m being serious.”

Nick scoffs, wincing when Harry accidentally steps on his foot. “You’re never serious, even when you’re being serious.”

“Well,” Harry says, because well, yeah, fair point. “I’m serious now.”

“Okay,” Nick concedes, though he sounds thoroughly unconvinced. Harry clumsily steps on his foot again. “Go on, then, what are you thinking about?”

“Um. I think. I— God, Nick, will you let me lead?”

“No, you’re rubbish at it.”

“Nick, for fuck’s sake.”

“Why are you being all—” Nick takes his hand off Harry’s shoulder to flap it about “—awful?” 

“Because I’m trying to say something.”

Nick swallows, his eyes narrowing briefly for a moment before, “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Yes,” Harry says. No point in denying it, they both have. “Still going to say it, though.”

Nick glances around the dance floor. “I need to get back to Gladys and—”

“For fuck’s sake.” Harry grips Nick’s tie and holds him there. “I want to kiss you. Right here, in front of all these people we know, on purpose.”

Nick freezes in Harry’s arms. They aren’t moving anymore, just standing there. Nick’s eyes are impossibly soft, flitting between Harry’s pleading eyes and his mouth. “And why should I let you?”

Because Harry wants to take him to bed and kiss him, and get between his legs and kiss him, and fall asleep beside him, and then roll over and kiss him again with his shit morning breath tomorrow morning, and maybe the night after that, and maybe every night until they’re old and grey. Because he’s spent his entire adult life giving too much of a fuck, and now he’s very acutely out of fucks to give.

The music fades to erupting applause as a burst of gold and silver confetti rains from the ceiling, making everything around them shine. A golden speck lands on Nick’s mouth; Harry brushes it away with his thumb. Nick closes his eyes, letting him.

“Because I want to,” Harry says, pressing closer, “because I always fucking want to, and I’m sick of pretending I don’t, and because I think you want me to as well, and in the end that’s all that matters.”

The glitter falling around them isn’t quite a shower of stars, but it’s close enough.

“Because I’m not confused, because I'm completely fucking in lo—”

“ _Fine_ ,” Nick blurts, soft and flushed and breathless. His eyes are squeezed shut, like he can’t bear to open them. “Just stop talking.”

And Harry smiles, and pulls Nick closer, and then he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["Thinking Out Loud" by Ed Sheeran.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lp-EO5I60KA)


End file.
